


Everyday Heroes

by OneTakeMissing



Series: Everyday Heroes [1]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneTakeMissing/pseuds/OneTakeMissing
Summary: Chloe sends Max a drunken text and it brings her to Arcadia Bay sooner.
Relationships: Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Chloe Price
Series: Everyday Heroes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726195
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





	Everyday Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Awesome!Max Caulfield without powers but with outside help. Set before Kate was drugged. Her and Victoria are present briefly, but not named.   
> No beta, since I've no idea how to acquire one. Depending on response, I would like to continue the series, I want to write Kate, Joyce, David and Victoria in properly.   
> First fic, let me know what you think!

Research. It’s odd, considering your old disregard for everything academic, that your life can now be summarized by one word. Research. Of course, it doesn’t illustrate the scope of your obsession, but that can’t be helped, it’s no tiny instant picture. It feels like every moment, waking or not, is spent glued to a screen. 

There is, thankfully, one upside to your fervor. Your grades have never been higher, because you felt that you need basic knowledge in a lot of areas.  Y our  parents didn’t support you in your feverish and frenzied search for answers,  but  disappointing them further still adds to your anxiety and that’s the last thing you need right now. Dog, you sound so pretentious these days, but nobody would take you seriously if they saw you, so voice calls it had to be, and if  you sounds like a  kid , fuck all is what you get.

And you can’t be happy with fuck all. You fucked up five years ago and it’s been haunting, you don’t think you could live with yourself if it happened again.

Your eyes get blurry, which is a sign you have to take a break. You have it down to an art by now. The best stretching, best eye exercises, best hand movements to restore blood flow and help your cramping… It also reeks in here, so you open the window. Your lights are practically nonexistent other than a 15 inch rectangle, but it’s not like you want to see yourself too often. You eat just enough to keep your weight around 111 pounds – always makes you sketch a grin, that. You love to see the sinew and bone moving under your skin, the almost mechanical aspect of yourself.

You look to your wall, taking in the cliché of red string and pictures and pins and articles and phone numbers and whatever limited information you were able to collect. You often want to bash your head against it, but that’d disturb the careful order you set those in, so no. 

You talk like it’s your job these days and it might as well be, considering the ungodly number of calls you make during the day. Thank Dog for awesome prepaid plans, or it’d cost you a kidney every day. 

The night is quiet and so are you.

It’s ingrained by now that the less of a bother you are, the smaller the chance someone will tell you to fuck off.  E ven your trusty laptop is cheap (tutoring doesn’t pay that well), encased in metal (you’re still clumsy and people are still shit) and with a silent keyboard (because you’re tiny and even though the first part of Chloe’s Pirate Ninjas of Arcadia Bay didn’t work out, you can be a sneaky little fuck and people yammer along). 

T he  ** BUZZ ** of your phone can be clearly heard. You jump to it, faltering a bit ‘cause even though you’re waiting on some responses, they hinge on those people going the extra mile and none of ‘em would call at this hour. Fernando and Kristen don’t contact you much anymore, without Lulu to keep you together, and Lulu’s parental units (can’t shake that one and “hella” for the life of you) have disconnected her number after the  one year mark…

** BUZZ **

** BUZZ **

** BUZZ **

That snaps you back to the present and you listlessly go check it.

Whiteout and vertigo is the closest you can describe it to yourself later, because it's an Arcadia area code. Your finger is oddly steady when tapping the notification and… it’s Chloe, undoubtedly. A ramble, but you don’t care. Contact. Reprieve. A jumble of emotions, after the “ _Wanna hear what the Captain thinks? The Captain ne_ _v_ _er wants_ _you to fuck off,_ _Firs’ Mate!_ ” It sounds so corny now, so stupid, but to your 13 year old self, the amount of disdain she put in those words was soul-rending. Looking back, she was just lashing out, but all the same it kept your dumb self from contacting her since.

You get out of your head and read the damn things.

It seems she just wrote everything she wanted to say. Weirdly structured, but her intoxication comes through anyway. You feel a flash of worry. After the expected ranting at you (introspection and Chloe didn’t mix, last you checked), she speaks of her step-douche, his soldier ways, about Rachel Amber, who kept her going when you didn’t (thankful is the only thing you can feel) and her disappearance (worry), about being drugged (PANIC) and about Mark Jefferson, which knocks you for a loop so bad that you end up back to clarity. Chloe is home safe, so you can focus. 

When you came to Seattle, you found yourself with a lot of free time, since playing pirates sucked without your Captain. You started following the lives of famous photographers. Mark is your favorite, but in the last year, seeing as how online time was better spent on other things, the fact that he was in Arcadia Bay escaped your notice. 

And then everything is right with the world, for a brief moment, because Chloe has come through for you again, without even knowing. The missing girls are always in the back of your mind, and with what you’ve gathered these last months it fits. A long shot at best, but it does. His scheduled events are easy to recall, those from before he was famous, which were so fucking niche that the cops wouldn’t have  known to investigate. Mark was just one of many up and coming guests then, just another nobody with a camera. 

It’s a matter of minutes to search for missing girls then, and from two dead and one drugged to high heaven, there are now six dead. For all that you couldn’t possibly put this together without Chloe, you still berate yourself, but that doesn’t help and she’s in Arcadia with him, so it’s not even a moment before you grab your go bag and book it to the closest bus. You are immeasurably glad you have money left for a fare, and sneaking out is second nature by now.

Joyce was the reason you started spending so much time at Chloe’s, she read between the lines in her kid’s stories about you and spoke with your parents about it. You never found out what she said, but you trust her still, so you’ll take a chance on this veteran husband of hers. Here’s to hoping. It’s not like any authority figures helped before, just secretaries, clerks, women that knew what it was like to be a victim, fathers who wanted a better world for their daughters… everyday heroes. 

* * *

You absentmindedly notice that you’ve climbed in a weird bus. A dead ringer for the one they used in The Shawshank Redemption, it’s a wheeled tourist trap that didn’t, thankfully, work, so you’re left to your own thoughts. Eight hours are a long time to spend in your own head, but headphones were the last thing you thought about.  You don’t want to blast music out of your phone like an  asshole, so humming "Ramblin' Man" under your breath it is. Fitting, if a bit too cheery, but you remember the day Chloe learned the word  _ perplexing _ , and called your broad taste in music that, proud of her “mature” punk songs. 

Your sleep is uneasy and jarred because, to no surprise, it’s not like in the movies. The bus shakes, banging your head against the glass repeatedly. Your reflection is blurry, bad, bad company, but apparently you’re so tired that you think in song titles now, so you don’t worry overmuch.

You’re very excited to meet Chloe again, though you don’t look it. The bags under your eyes are  surely black by now and you notice you grabbed your bear beanie.

Not two hours from Arcadia, a stern-looking woman climbs aboard. You only see her head from your vantage point, and you think of the Morrigan, the crone, because she’s sharp-eyed, with hair you’ve heard called salt and pepper,  braided practically . Her gait is odd, and once she reaches your row, you notice why.  Holding on to her pant leg is a darling of a girl, pitch black hair and eyes, pixie cut and missing a tooth. To your horror, she stops dead and then scrambles up the seat next to you. The woman opens her mouth, likely to bring her back to her side, but upon noticing your grip on your own arms, her gaze sharpens into concern.  L ikely wary, she gently snags the kid, stopping her from crowding you. It doesn’t do much good, because your heart’s already doing triple time and you still freeze when you see the quick breath because you look shady, no two ways about it and you’ll be stopped and you can’t be stopped now, no matter their good intentions, you ha-

“Bear lady!”

It’s not at all what you expected and it takes a moment to relax. You snort, and it’s her turn to back away like a startled puppy. You don’t know what makes you do it, but you reach up and take your  worn beanie off and give it to her. She lights up, snatches it away as if you’re gonna change your mind, jams it on her head and squeaks a ‘’Fank you,  bear lady!” You flush, because you can feel the bird nest that is on your head, and, to complete the unholy trio, your stomach growls loud enough that her nickname for you fits  even without the hat. You look down, anxiety mounting up again, but all you hear is a bit of rummaging through  a purse.  T he calloused hand that held back  the kid  enters your field of vision, holding one of those big chocolate coins you find at Starbucks. From the little frown on the kid’s face, this is hers, but she says nothing, just looks longingly after it. Feeling a bit brave, you try to recall Jack Sparrow and his shenanigans – funny word – that you learned to imitate as soon as you reached Seattle, because you didn’t want to forget your shared dreams of piracy. It’s too big to roll on your knuckles, so you have to do put your fists side by side and try like that. Lo and behold, it works. The wonder on the kid’s face and the surprise on the woman’s makes you grin, a rare sight these days. You flip the coin, and on the way down, you palm it. The cry of dismay doesn’t discourage you, because you remember your own reaction, and your hoodie is very large on you now, so the chocolate slides in your sleeve easily. You don’t keep them waiting, confident that your intentions won’t be mistaken at this point, you pull the coin from behind her ear and go “Halfsies?” at the girl.

She giggles happily, takes the coin and unwraps it with painstaking, learned precision, and sneakily takes the slightly smaller part for herself. 

Once the  tiny  tot is busy with the chocolate, you  scarf  yours down, loving the sugar, and look to the woman. You take her in, now that she’s close and still. She watches you with the same look she gives her charge, an unsettling realization. You steel yourself, like you’re preparing for the guillotine, but all she does is ask if you are all right. When you give a terse nod, she  reluctantly  leaves you be. 

The girl busies herself with your your beanie for the remaining duration of their trip, staying quiet. You idly recall the fact that children this small think everyone older is cool and you can’t fuck up the interaction, and you sigh in relief. The woman takes a seat once your ursine sister gets closer to you and that is the end of the interaction until near their station. 

Your beanie is returned to you along with a kind look, and the child waves enthusiastically and leaves with a skip in her step. Once they get off the bus, you  don your  beanie, but as you go to smooth it down, something pokes your hand.  Frowning, you investigate and find a card. You scowl, thinking it’s some sort of religious bullshit, but to your surprise, it’s a no nonsense business card, with a name you know.

** ELLEN HAMMER **

** OREGON SOCIAL SERVICES **

** 555-XXXX-XXXX **

You can’t help but laugh to yourself. No wonder she knew how to slip you a card with no fuss. One of the very few in this area that answered your plea s without hesitation. When she heard it was about a missing girl, she jumped at the chance to lend both an ear and a hand, and from a prepaid mobile far away from your house, you saw no harm in telling her. The hopeful feeling that envelops you when you remember that two hour conversation, in which she agreed that  your evidence wasn’t enough  yet but didn’t dismiss you, buoys you until you reach your destination.

* * *

You stretch hard enough that you get dizzy and have to lean on the bus stop wall. It’s eleven in the morning and there’s a long way to Chloe’s.

Even with your current 2D cartoon impersonation, half-a chocolate coin didn’t do much to tide you over. Two Whales it is, Anne Bony (you’re punny and you know it, but you hear the groan from your ancestors, half expecting Mushu to slide out from behind the coming low fence and go “Dishonor on your boat, your hat, your cat and your coat!”).

The sky is overcast, and it stinks of dust. Seems it rained just enough to bring up the dust, but not rinse it. No petrichor to soothe your nose. Little pockets in the clouds allow scattered rays to reach around you, and you see a fat, striped cat sunning in one of them. He looks a bit like an old sensei, like he’d give you a side quest, and the overall image is goofy enough that you let yourself slow down a bit to snap a picture. The instant camera clunks  and trembles  like it’s on its last breath. It was always like that, even after you tinkered with it, so you just enjoy the slight burnt whiff it gives off and wait for the result, taking a bit of pleasure in the simple act of shaking it.

It’s fucking awesome, the cat – better leave the naming to Chloe – is slightly off-center, looking all sage-like. You put the camera back in your bag and rifle through your head for a song. Happy with yourself, the tune you start to hum is “Hoist the Colors”. Wondering how much prettier your captain is these days, you go on your humming way. It goes much faster than you expected, the trip to the diner, and you blend in with the rest of the youth – too much of it, for noon on a weekday.

Joyce is indeed there and you stop to take her in, which doesn’t go that well, because you’ ve stopped in the way, and a none too gentle nudge from a short-haired  blonde  girl pushes you into another one. You both stumble, but she grabs a pole and steadies. No time for anything other than a quick thanks and sorry though, because there’s a free bar stool two away from the man Joyce is speaking with. It takes a little to scramble onto it, but you’re just in time to see that the man is fuming. Joyce looks weary and resigned, but she tries to talk him down, which works for a while, till’ some moron snaps something about a blue bitch being the one at fault for the short day, ‘cause she saw her booking it from the Academy. There goes the calm of the guy at the counter. You think that you’ve heard enough, slam back the coffee  and eat the muffin  that another waitress slid in front you, leave a  $ 20 note  on the counter  and make your way out  the building . You found  out nothing of note other than the half-day at school so maybe Chloe is at the house with the step-douche. Better not call him that to his face. 

* * *

It’s a quick fifteen minute trip to the house and by that time, you’re giddy and mischievous, so you stealthily go up the old tree, grab the open window sill and peek upwards from it. 

You see posters and graffiti, the image not fitting with what you remember of the Captain, but you suppose anyone changes in five years, and you’re here already, so what’s there to lose?

You grin and, for the third time today, you hum. _Marry Me_ theme from Pirates of the Caribbean. It takes a few seconds, but there’s a yelp, a coughed “’T D’ FAHK’ and a thud. It’s only afterwards that you register the smell of weed. Flummoxed, you rise a bit higher and peek into the room again, only to see a big, untidy bed and a coughing flash of blue, which stops you in your tracks.

She rises, eyes on you the whole time, wide and red. You’re silent and you belatedly realize that from her bed, she could only see half ‘a panda bear head humming a pirate song, which must be the reason why she’s now looking at you, then at the joint, then at you again. You study your old partner, for it is indeed Chloe Price.

She’s heart-stopping, literally, you think, because it feels like you’re frozen. The first thing you notice is the hair, dyed an eye-catching blue. A splash of color, how apt. She lost the baby fat, you notice as you scan her face. Her eyes are still blue, but her cheeks are not quite full enough, her lips are cracked and there’s a healing bruise on her nose. Her collarbones are too prominent, both bisected by a black string, on which hang three bullet cases. You briefly wonder why three. She’s in a pristine white cutoff shirt – why that clean,  when  it looks like someone ripped it? - and worn blue jeans. Barefoot. All twenty nails are painted the same shade as her hair, but the paint is cracked – intentionally so, how awesome. Gives her a tough look. Not that she needs  it , with the cracked, swollen knuckles and the wowser ink sleeve. It  is artsy and clean but still manages to look like a prison tat somehow. D oesn’t hide her lean, defined muscles, only adds to the effect, especially given the fact that every inch of her seems tense.

You’re so caught in your perusal that the opening of the front door does not register, but the thundering **CHLOE!!!** startles you badly enough that you lose your balance and dip below the sill. By the time you right yourself, room door opens and the man from the diner storms through it. He beelines towards Chloe, who’s gone limp by now, dejected. The vicious left backhand seems expected. It catches her on the nose and she spins with the force of it, yelping.

You don’t think. You just feel something snap. You’re not athletic by any stretch, but that  does n’t  stop you. You awkwardly vault over the sill, land on your knees on her cluttered desk. Something stops your right shin from landing properly and you go sideways, on your ass, but that just makes it easier to slide your feet down on the thick carpet.  He doesn’t turn, miraculously. You follow your first instinct and shove him with all your 111 pound body. 

He’d been looming over her, so he’s easily unbalanced. He slams into the flimsy wooden door of the wardrobe, cracks it in two and goes in sideways. The upper half of the door is over him, followed by the shelf, a box, a snow globe and the floor lamp. He groans after a few moments, but you don’t wait for him. You grab Chloe’s hand and yank her away. 

Once out the door, Chloe digs her heels in and steers you behind the house, where you notice the old swing but there’s no time to comment. She shimmies trough a hole in the fence – miracle that she doesn’t slice her feet open. You follow and collapse on the other side winded, sweaty and scared. She starts crawling, then rises once she’s past the first couple of trees. You keep following, but don’t speak, panting. After a few minutes, she sits inside a hollow, thick tree trunk and brings you to do the same. You don’t question it. 

Quiet. More minutes still, for you to settle, the adrenaline to fade. Quiet.

A hand gently touches your face. You don’t startle. She traces your face slowly, a smile beginning to break on her face. She doesn’t have to ask, the WHY? is clear in her glassy gaze.

“ Y ou finally contacted me.” You keep your answers s ho t, hoping to avert a scolding, no matter how well-deserved it might be.

“Did I?” She sounds so good, her voice has deepened and gotten scratchier. It’s enough to give you shivers and you crowd closer.

“In your text messages. Last night.” She pats for her phone, but of course it’s back in her room, so you fish out yours and hand it over. In the process, you brush your leg because you’re not under a baobab tree, just a random half-dead pine. The hiss is entirely too loud and Chloe just lights up the screen and then turns the phone to look at your leg. Seems you scraped it on the desk. Figures, something splintered on that desk and sliced your leg. You  ignore it and start checking her feet. She pulls them towards herself at your cold touch, but it’s obviously just the shock of it. She relaxes after a moment, letting you do it. Damp and a bit muddy after the trek over the soaked grass, but no damage. By the time you’re done, she hands you back the phone and you wait for her to say something.

“Huh. I did  text .” Pause. “That’s all it took?”

“You said you never wanted to see me again, you have no social media that I could find and this isn’t the number I had for you.”

“Other one got swiped at a concert.”

“Okay.” She says nothing more, just taking you in, and after a few minutes, you break the silence.

“Was that David?” She flinches. “Step-shit, yep.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Indeed.” Sagely tone, grimacing. There goes that avenue of help. You go turtle and start thinking. You owe a lot to Ellen and shouldn't give her more work but it seems that you have little choice at this point. Chloe’s texts revealed a lack of other friends, the school is out and the house is out of the question, so the card it is. You don’t have time to explain, you don’t want to do it twice and you don’t feel safe so close to the house and you want to take her the fuck outta here and and and she helped and - 

“Do you trust me, Chlo – we have to get away and I may have a place, do you trust me?” She bites off an affirmative – touchingly quick – so you don’t waste a second and dial.

Everything hangs on this one call, so you shush her first and turn on the speaker.

“Hello Ellen, sorry to call so suddenly, but I had a big breakthrough and I need help.”

“Max! I was starting to get worried! What do you need?”

“A place to stay for a bit, for two people.”

“Done. Can you move on your own, or do I have to send people to pick you up?

You look to Chloe questioningly and she says “We can get there.” You decide not to mention the lack of shoes. The interruption does not phase Ellen, she just rattles an address. 

“How long?” 

Chloe fields the vague question with a curt “Half-hour.”

“Don’t rush.”, is all she answers before cutting the call. Chloe, now with something to do, needs no prompting. She  gets to her feet as best she can, jostling you, but there’s really nowhere to topple. You notice the trees becoming sparser after about a hundred labored steps, which reinforces your feeling that you should nope away. A beaten path emerges beneath your feet and you go through the grass on its side to muffle your booted steps. Chloe keeps on the path silently, by luck rather than design, because the soil is packed and dry here. It doesn’t take long for a rust bucket on wheels to become visible through the remaining trees, but even you recognize that pointing out its state helps no one. The doors  seem locked, but a hard yank on the driver side causes it to screech open. She gets in and pushes  on  the other one  from her seat . While you clamber in, she rummages at the feet of the passenger chair and you take care not to bonk her head. She finds the key eventually, among the wrappers on the floor and off the truck sputters a moment later. The boom it makes once in second gear could wake the dead, but the solidity of the truck around you eases your fears.

Neither of you are inclined to talk, but Chloe wants, for good reason, to know where you are going. You tell her about Ellen and her work – not mentioning that the bus today is the first time you’ve seen the woman face to face – and that seems to pacify her for the moment. Or, at least, it gets her to tell you that she’s got jack shit to lose at this point, so might as well go with you.

* * *

The ride seems to take forever and no time at all. You watch Chloe navigate the backstreets easily, wondering why she decided not to take the main street you notice upon reaching the small plaza, but breaking the silence seems a bad idea.

The truck  coughs  its last about 30 feet shy of your destination. Chloe  manages to pull to the shoulder just in time, but then looks lost – a never before seen state – so you kick the door open, get out and start walking. You hear her curse and follow shortly,  slamming the doors but leaving the car there.

The house itself is big, old, patched without care for style, but it looks like it’ll take a tornado to even rattle the dust on the roof. Wrought iron fence, hedges beyond, wrought iron bars on the heavy windows – not to isolate, but to protect, you notice, spiked on the outside. The front yard is long and narrow, bordered by what seem to be patches of flowers. They help the place avoid the creepy factor. 

Chloe grows bored of gawking and slams on the doorbell. Seems like she’s gathered her wits on the way. 

Quick feet can be heard even through the heavy metal door, followed by a muffled thump. 

“At least you’ve learned to wait for me – go back to the kitchen”, comes a wryly amused voice. The door opens slowly, probably to wait for the kid to move away, and the both of you lay eyes on Ellen Hammer. Medieval feathered shoulder pads are all that’s missing for the picture to be complete. She looks like an Amazon. Her hair is loose, nearly floor-length – you’ve got to ask how she pinned it, it didn’t look nearly that long b raided . She’s in a forest green, leaf-patterned blouse and earth-brown, flowing pants that are probably decades older than you. Her feet are bare. The effect is jarring, but you can guess what you interrupted, as she’s made use of story time in the past, when you felt like your efforts were going nowhere. You’d call,  every week, mute your microphone and, unless she got a call, you’d listen to her read and do voices for the kids. She’s never told you that you were too old for it. 

Her eyes widen upon finding the girl from the bus on her doorstep, but she pulls the door all the way open and steps back to let you in. Incongruously, the hallway has a Japanese-like bit of lowered floor right at the door. It makes you realize just how tall Ellen is, to have opened the door from beyond it. There’s enough room for both you and Chloe to step inside and, wonder of wonders, Chloe stops on the stone bit, looking at the truly alarming amount of shoes on display. It reminds you that you didn’t tell her much, but before you can say anything, Ellen leans over and selects a pair of rubber flip-flops and a pair of fluffy shark-shaped booties. She tosses the flops before Chloe and makes to take her hands, then refrains, looking at her bruised nose but staying silent. She wiggles the shark booties, which presumably reminds Chloe that her feet are cold, so she takes them and is imperiously directed to a plain door down the hall. Her bewildered thanks also serves to tell the woman which is which of the two of you, and while Chloe flip-flops to the bathroom, you brace yourself. You and Ellen study each other over the sound of running water. Chloe takes a little time to wash and turns off the water with the handle all the way to hot, judging by the muted bang you can hear from the pipes. 

“Maxine.”

“Ellen.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Chloe Price, old friend, almost victim and possible solver of the case.”

“What case?” comes from Chloe, as she opens the door. She has one bootie on, but puts the second one on as she comes out the room, a testament to her impatience. You sigh and resign yourself to a long explanation.

“The disappearances”  offers Ellen, and that stops Chloe in her tracks. You follow sedately when your host bids you to and wait until she stops by the kitchen to tersely scatter children back to their rooms, much to their vocal displeasure, and then to usher you in. The room is modern, gleaming like the rest of the house, but it looks cozy and lived in, not austere even with the gray counter tops and the  enormous pot simmering on the stove with all four burners lit low under it. She gestures you two to take a seat at the round table and you do, but Chloe snags a chair and sits backwards on it, as close to you as possible. Ellen eyes her, but says nothing, turning her back on the both of you to putter about, and as you recognize another staple of the house, you take advantage of Chloe’s closeness and go boneless, leaning on her. This startles her a bit, yet she gamely braces. You snort when you feel her fidgeting, but you can’t help yourself the burst of fondness that takes you over, and you outright giggle when you see Ellen adding more than a dash of  cognac to your chocolate. She brings three mugs and gives one to each of you, but Chloe takes both of yours and holds them in the hand you’re not leaning on. You don’t change your position, but you do start speaking as you see Ellen mimic Chloe’s position on a different chair. Their chairs are backwards, but their attention is entirely on you. You try to be succinct. 

“Just after I got to Seattle – about five years ago – I met a girl named Lusila. She was tall but shy, bullied like you wouldn’t believe. So I thought to myself _What would Chloe do?_ and went over there and yelled my head off and scattered them. We helped each other. She took most of my time and I let her do it, I was happy not to have time to get lost in my own head. Some three months after we met, she vanished suddenly, no contact whatsoever. The police investigation went nowhere and I was convinced they bungled it, so I went and looked into it. Started with old newspapers at the local library. There’s an awesome woman there that scanned every newspaper that came to the library. Found a worrying pattern, drugged or missing girls. Wanted to do some good on the side, something useful with my life, you know, for once, so off I went.”

Chloe  bristles at the “for once” but, miraculously, doesn’t interrupt. 

“I looked for people who could help. Talked to everybody who would listen by phone, learned to fake an ID and to make myself seem older with makeup. People don’t question overmuch when you tell them you’re looking for a missing girl, which seems odd, but I went with it. Mom’s office clothes helped the ruse, but lately I haven’t needed to leave the house much. Not much of my evidence would be admissible in court, but if I could point them in the right direction, I’d call it a win. I had people like Ellen here, those who’d lost kids, aged out and taken in seemingly the same way. We were desperate by this time, since even with twenty of us, give or take, we weren’t seeing much progress. Believe it or not, you helped a lot.”, you say towards Chloe.

“Me?” She looks beyond baffled.

“Yes”, you say as energetically as you can, from your slouch. “You sent me t hose text s and added two more to the list, you and Rachel. You gave me a recent lead which is the current photography teacher at Blackwell Academy, Mark Jefferson.  I still have  one hobby: following his career and attending underground photography shows when he was there and I had people to talk to in the area. I hadn’t made the connection, but he was always close by when a girl got gone, and the cops wouldn’t care or know to look, since it got advertised  only by word of mouth, to keep only the  << true >> fans there,  gate-keeping bastards. I have here”, you say, reaching for the folder in your go bag, “his route over the last four years, as much of it as I could find. Will this be enough for an investigation, you think?”

You feel a smirk pulling your lips at their gobsmacked expressions. The  folder is thicker than those one would see in cop shows. It’s difficult to maneuver and the  _ thud _ it lands with is unintentional but appropriate. Ellen gets herself under control and just quirks an eyebrow, getting off her chair to move next to you. You open the leather-bound cover, running your fingers along it, and of course Chloe chooses that moment to gather her scattered wits enough to comment on it.

"I was fourteen, feeling dramatic and  useless . I also thought that if it looked nice it'd be taken seriously...", you huff at her, but their attention moves to the file.

It takes nearly an hour to go through all of it, what with you needing to explain how you  acquired each and every piece of evidence. Rubbing her eyes, Ellen suddenly  beckons  and the crash and quick pitter-patter of feet announce the return of the child, who doesn't need more than a head no d to start pulling at both you and Chloe. Your combined protests do no good and the door closes behind you, Ellen's clear voice saying that she needs to sort them by source  and that she’ll add two places to the table . “ Pesky obligation to legally obtain evidence _ ” _ , you grumble. The kid walks a well-worn path.  She leads you to a tiny closet with a humongous bed and a shelf on the wall to the side. 

Well, obviously, you’re staying. Chloe snorts and sits down gingerly atop the covers,  then plops on her back, sighing hard enough to  blow her blue bangs off her face. She looks goofy  and suddenly you can’ t stop the snort, which evolves into  sobbing . You must look like a maniac, but for the first time in years, you f eel like you’ve made  real progress, like you can relax a bit .  The world tilts and you find yourself in Chloe’s lap. Your left hand snakes around her to clench on her l eft shoulder, tight as it can be and you fist  her bullets in your right hand. You need the contact. Her arms go around you, near-bruising grip at your nape and ribs. When that registers, you push her back on the bed. 

Eventually, the twinges of your body make themselves known.  Your legs are half off the bed and your torso is turned in Chloe’s hold. O nce you calm down, you can feel her head turning, and the bed dipping near it. The kid  likely took your silence as permission to come closer. She settles clumsily right next to Chloe’s blue hair and pats you gently on the head. You sniff wetly and lift your head to see her handing you a – frankly scary – Tim Burton-style plushie. She must’ve gone to get it. You roll off Chloe and settle, you on one side and the girl on the other. Chloe takes the plushie,  sets it on your head like a weird hat and musses the kid’s hair  once her hand is free.  Your eyes are heavy. You’ve told them the important bits, so you scramble up the bed and let yourself relax. You drift off to Chloe and the kid’s muttering, a tiny hand still on the back of your head and an arm over your back.


End file.
